


You Can Touch

by Skarabrae_stone



Series: The Jolene Series [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Body Worship, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Multi, OT3, World War Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:45:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarabrae_stone/pseuds/Skarabrae_stone
Summary: She opens the door almost as soon as he knocks, ushering him inside before he can say anything. Her hair is partway down, her jacket and tie folded neatly over the back of a chair. She was getting ready for bed, he supposes, or at least planning to stay in for the night.Steve is in a meeting. Bucky goes to visit Peggy.





	You Can Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This is set a few months after the end of "Just Because You Can".  
> No content warnings; this is pretty darn fluffy.  
> Thanks to EmilliaGryphon for her encouragement!

_My condition is hard to define_  
_I'm thin and pale and I need to unwind_  
_See no future from where I stand_  
_For the present I am in your hands_  
  
_And you can touch me_  
_I won't hide_  
_You can touch me_  
_I won't die_

_\--“You Can Touch”, Crowded House_

They’re in London for a few days, recovering from their last mission and waiting for the intel they collected to be processed into something they can use for their _next_ mission, and Steve’s stuck in a meeting that promises to last until midnight. Bucky declines to visit the pubs with the others, electing to go for a walk instead.

The last rays of sunlight slanting low over the Thames warn of approaching dusk, and the people he sees on the streets are either going home or going out for the evening. He wanders for about half an hour, aimless to any eyes that might be on him, until his feet bring him to the inn where Peggy’s staying. There’s no one in the lobby, and he climbs the stairs quickly, eager to avoid observation. Peggy has a reputation to maintain, and even in a place as big as London, people talk.

She opens the door almost as soon as he knocks, ushering him inside before he can say anything. Her hair is partway down, her jacket and tie folded neatly over the back of a chair. She was getting ready for bed, he supposes, or at least planning to stay in for the night.

“I’ll go if you’d rather,” he says, already half-regretting the impulse that had led him here. He likes Peggy, likes her a lot, but he rarely sees her without Steve there, and he’s suddenly unsure of his welcome. Peggy might think him presumptuous.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, walking back to her dressing table. “Make yourself at home.”

She pulls a pin from her hair, and on impulse, he catches her wrist before she can raise it to her hair again.

“May I?”

She glances at him in evident surprise, then settles in the chair in front of the dressing table. “If you like.”

He nods his thanks, knowing she’ll see it in the mirror, and gently begins to remove the pins from her hair, watching the curls tumble down around her face and neck. There is something incredibly precious about being allowed to do this, to participate in dismantling the meticulous image she presents to the world. It feels like trust.

When he’s done, he runs his fingers through her hair, making sure he didn’t miss any pins, then draws it back from her face, fingertips just brushing her jawline. Her skin is soft and smooth, like the silk scarf he gave his mother for her birthday a few years ago, before the war.  

“There.” His voice is a little hoarse. “All done.”

“Thank you, Bucky,” she says, and there’s a softness in her expression that he’s never seen directed at him before. She tilts her head, considering, then says, “I was going to take off my makeup.”

He recognizes the offer for what it is, and smiles. “May I?”

“You may.”

There’s a pitcher and bowl on her dressing table, the former already filled with water; the room doesn’t have its own bathroom. He pours some water into the bowl, and wets a washcloth while Peggy covers her hair with a kerchief. The soap is soft and white, and smells sweetly of lavender.

“You get this with your ration book?” he asks, sniffing it appreciatively. “Seems a little fancy for Army issue.”

“I liberated it,” she says primly. “In Paris.”

He grins. “Yeah, the Nazis don’t deserve nice things like this.”

“I knew you were a man of sense, Barnes.”

“Well, someone has to be.”

He starts at her jawline and works upwards, feeling her slowly relax under his hands. When she closes her eyes, he smooths the cloth over her eyelids, wiping away charcoal and powder. The scent of lavender rises around them, and his breathing slows, the last bit of tension releasing from his shoulders. It feels good to take care of her, to do something so sweet and innocuous.

He saves her lips for last, pressing his thumb against the cloth to rub away her lipstick. Peggy makes the smallest of sounds, a little intake of breath, and he rubs his thumb over her lower lip again before reluctantly drawing the cloth away.

“All done.”

She opens her eyes, and draws him down to her with a hand on the back of his neck. Her lips are full and soft against his, her mouth warm and welcoming. She smells of lavender.

Bucky opens his mouth for her willingly, surprised at her gentleness; Peggy kisses him languidly, thoroughly, the kind of kiss lovers share on lazy afternoons. It sparks something warm in his chest, a wave of affection so strong it’s almost painful.

All this time, he’s thought of their little triad as a vee, with Steve in the middle, himself and Peggy on either side. Now, he’s beginning to realize it might be more of a triangle; that he and Peggy could be capable of loving each other as much, or nearly as much, as both of them love Steve. He puts the thought away for later, letting himself sink deeper into her embrace.

At last, she breaks the kiss with a gasp, and leans her forehead against his. “You know,” she says a little breathlessly, “you shouldn’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Did I start something?”

Her lips curve upward mischievously as she guides his hand to her collar. “I believe you were helping me undress.”

“Oh, is that what I was doing.”

“Unless you don’t want to, of course,” she teases, and he grins in answer.

“May I?”

Her eyes go darker. “You may.”

Bucky goes slowly, undoing each button with exaggerated care. When he finishes the last one, he smooths his hands up her sides, skirting over the dense fabric of her bra before gently pushing her shirt off her shoulders. He takes the time to fold it and hang it over the footboard of the bed before returning to her.

Her chest is rising and falling a little more rapidly, now, and it gives him a warm sense of accomplishment. To be able to please her in this way feels like the best sort of challenge, a reminder that he is more than a soldier, and more than Captain America’s right-hand-man.

“Stand?” he asks, and she does, the blush rising in her cheeks.

Returning, he rubs his thumbs gently over the swell of her breasts, eliciting a soft little sigh. Peggy drops her forehead to his shoulder as he deftly unfastens the clasp at her back, and he presses a soft kiss to her neck in return.

He lets his hands drift downward, savoring her smooth bare skin, until he reaches her skirt, and the zipper at her waist. Kneeling, he draws the skirt down over her hips, lets it pool on the floor while he stares up at her, eyes traveling over woolen stockings and garter belt, her pale breasts and the avid expression in her dark eyes. He likes the feel of her towering over him, just as he liked it when Steve used to push him around, before the serum.

Yeah, he has a type.

“Well?” she asks, voice husky. “It’s not polite to leave a lady waiting.”

 _You ain’t a lady, Carter_ , he thinks, but says aloud, “Sorry, couldn’t help but admire the view.”

“You flatterer, Barnes.”

He lips the bare skin of her inner thigh, making her gasp. “Nah, just honest.”

“God, Bucky.” Her hand comes to rest in his hair, tightening just a bit, not enough to hurt.

The garter belt comes off, then her stockings, and she tugs his hair again when he lifts her foot up, as though struggling to stay upright. He knows she isn’t; Peggy has an excellent sense of balance, and standing briefly on one foot, then the other, isn’t enough to upset it. Even so, the illusion that she’s depending on him, _using_ him, like this, is enough to make him groan. His formerly deliberate movements become more frantic, and the moment he’s got her stockings off he’s pulling down her knickers, barely waiting for her to kick them off before backing her onto the bed.

She pulls him on top of her, fingers still tangled in his hair as she kisses him with a fierce heat that makes him think of wildfires and thunderstorms and the long, fast drop of a rollercoaster, of Steve with bloody knuckles and the wild light of triumph in his eyes. His skin feels hot and tight and oversensitive, every touch sending sparks up and down his spine. He is blindingly, achingly hard.

“You have—too many—clothes on,” she pants, breaking the kiss, and Bucky sits up to divest himself of his uniform.

“Better?”

“Much.” She pulls him down again, hooking one leg around the backs of his thighs to draw him in closer, fingernails raking lines of fire down his back.

He kisses her gasping mouth, the hollow of her throat, the hard peaks of her breasts, mouths his way down her belly while she arches up against him, encouraging him in gestures rather than words.

“Tell me what you want, doll,” he pants. “Mouth or fingers?”

Her grip on his hair tightens almost painfully. “Mouth first. Then fingers.”

Bucky feels his heart rate increase by a couple of notches. “Fuck,” he says feelingly. “Yeah. Okay.”

He slides lower, and she parts her legs for him, knees bent. She’s so goddamned gorgeous like this, all loose and relaxed and wanting.

The smell and taste of her is intoxicating, her legs tightening around him until he can feel the flex of her thighs with every stroke. She hardly makes any noise, but the rate of her breathing and the way she grinds against him tells him what he needs to know. When he finally crooks his fingers just the right way, she whimpers, “ _Ah, ah, ah!_ ” and goes taut like a bowstring before collapsing, boneless, on the bed.

Bucky crawls back to the head of the bed, waiting until she opens her eyes and smiles at him. Her hair is a sweaty mess, spread out around her head like a tangled halo. He’s seen that expression on her face before, but always directed toward Steve; now that it’s turned on him, he feels almost winded by it, like a punch to the gut. Like the first time Steve said _I love you._

“Okay?” he asks breathlessly.

She takes his hand, presses it to her cheek. It’s a strangely intimate gesture. “More than.”

“Glad to hear it.” His voice is hoarse.

A little sharpness returns to her eyes, and she sweeps her gaze up and down him, assessing. “You haven’t finished.”

“I wanted to take care of you.”

That makes her smile. “You did beautifully, Bucky. Now it’s your turn. What would you like?”

After what just transpired, he’s somewhat surprised to find himself still capable of blushing. “I… I can just, um, take care of it. You don’t have to—”

“Nonsense, darling, I want to.” She sits up, with a distinctly predatory look in her eye. “Steve always keeps you to himself, the lucky bastard.”

Bucky laughs, falling back on the bed in an ungraceful sprawl. “Alright, then. I’ll put myself in your hands.”

In one swift move, she rolls over and straddles him, leaning down to brush her tongue against his nipple. He shudders at the sensation, barely suppressing a moan.

Her smile turns wicked. “May I?” she whispers, skimming her fingers over the crease of his hip.

“Yes!” he gasps. “Yes, anything!”

It shouldn’t surprise him, he thinks as she takes him in hand, that to have all of Peggy’s attention on him at once is terrifying and wonderful in equal measures.

 _I could definitely love her_ , he thinks, and then Peggy’s mouth is wet and warm upon him, and he ceases to think entirely.

 

Later, when they’ve collapsed together, his head nestled against her shoulder, her hand stroking his hair, he can’t believe how _right_ it feels. What he and Steve have is not quite the same as what the three of them have together, and it’s different again from what is blossoming between him and Peggy. He’s surprised by how tender he feels toward her, by her allowing that tenderness. It feeds something in him he didn’t even know was hungry.

“What time is it?” Peggy murmurs, and he flops a hand around until he can find his wristwatch, abandoned on the bedside table.

“Around eleven.”

“Steve should be here soon, then.”

“If they ever let him go. We might have to mount a rescue mission.”

“Mm. I’ll let you organize that.” She trails her fingers down his hip, making him shiver. “I expect he’ll be all wound up by the time he gets here. Think you have another round in you?”

He tenses a little, because he knows he _could_ go again, easily—he’s relaxed, but not tired. It seems like it takes a lot to tire him out, these days, for all it’s exhausting to be so constantly on edge. He’s been trying not to think about it, trying to blame his mental state on the fugue of war and his physical state on training, but he knows neither is quite true.

“Bucky?” she asks. “Are you alright?”

He shakes his head slightly, closing his eyes against the low light from the bedside lamp. He’s been trying to ignore it, but he knows, he _knows_ something’s wrong, and—he’s so tired of keeping it to himself.

“I’m gonna tell you something,” he says quietly. “But you can’t tell anyone, okay? Not even Steve. Especially not Steve.”

The hand in his hair tightens a little, but her voice is calm. “If this is about us fucking without him, I think it’s a little late to close the stable door.”

He snorts. “No, that wasn’t what I had in mind.” He tips his head back, meeting her eyes. “You know me, Peggy. You know I wouldn’t keep something from him for—for malicious reasons.”

“No,” she says. “But I know you sometimes keep things from him for stupid reasons.”

He really can’t argue with that one, much as he’d like to. He sighs. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

A touch to his chin makes him look at her again. Peggy’s expression is kind, but firm. “Tell me,” she says. “Tell me, and then we’ll decide whether to tell him or not.”

He hesitates for a long moment. “I trust you.”

It comes out like a challenge.

She smooths a hand over his hair, kisses the top of his head. “I’m not going to tell anyone without your permission. I just might argue with you about keeping it a secret.”

“Okay.” He hesitates for a long moment, then says in a low voice, “You know, at Azzano, they did—they did stuff to me. Experiments.”

“Yes.”

“I—I don’t know, exactly, what they did to me, but… I’m not right, Peggy. Ever since then, I’m—they did something to me, changed me.”

To his relief, she doesn’t say anything, just continues stroking his hair, waiting for the rest.

“I’m on edge now, all the time,” he says hoarsely. “Like I’ve got something under my skin, tryin’ to get out. I can see in the dark, I’m a better shot than I ever was, I can—I’m stronger, and I heal faster, and drink don’t seem to work on me like it used to, or cigarettes, or coffee, and I just—I don’t know what they did, but they woke something up inside me, Peg, and I can’t make it stop.”

“You think it was some version of the serum.” She doesn’t sound mocking, or skeptical—just thoughtful.

“I don’t know what to think,” he whispers. “I just want to go back to the way I was.”

“Oh, Bucky,” she says in a wavering voice. “None of us can go back, you know that. If I could—” She breaks off, and bends down to kiss him.

He clings to her, wanting to lose himself in her, frightened as much by the act of confessing as by what he confessed.

“Don’t tell him,” he says. “He’ll only worry, and it won’t do any good. If we ever make it out of this, I’ll tell him then, but…”

“Alright,” says Peggy. “Alright, Bucky, alright.”

Bucky presses his forehead against her shoulder and draws a shuddering breath, trying to compose himself. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

With another deep breath, he sits up properly, flashing her a rueful smile. “Sorry to ruin the mood.”

“Darling,” she says, with surprising fondness. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

“I do say so.” She grips his shoulders, tugging him back towards her. “Come lie down. You need to keep me entertained until Steve gets here.”

He rolls on top of her, caging her with his arms. “Is that so?”

“Mm. You don’t want me to fall asleep before Steve gets here, do you?”

Bucky lowers himself enough to touch his lips to hers. “No, we can’t have that.”

 

In the end, they do nearly fall asleep despite their best efforts. When the soft knock sounds at the door, Bucky jolts to alertness, dislodging Peggy from where she’s dozing with her head tucked under his chin.

“You have to answer the door,” he hisses.

“Mmf. You do it.”

“It’s your room.”

“Ugh. Fine.” She sits up, and he admires the naked curve of her back before she drags the quilt off the bed and wraps it around herself.

Bucky makes a quiet noise of protest at the loss of warmth, and she shoots him an unimpressed look and a gesture that clearly means, _What, I’m supposed to answer the door naked?_

He leers in response, and Peggy smacks him.

“Shut up,” she whispers, and shuffles to the door.

A moment later, she steps back to let Steve in.

“Sorry I’m late,” he murmurs as she locks the door behind him. “With Jones injured, some asshole was talkin’ about reassigning—”

He breaks off, gaze travelling from Peggy’s bare shoulders and sex-mussed hair to Bucky, sitting up in bed with the sheets pooling around his waist. For a moment, Bucky tenses; as much as he knows in _theory_ that Steve is fine with this, there’s still a small part of him shrieking that he’s just been caught fooling around with his best friend’s girl.

Steve’s face breaks into a beatific smile. “ _Oh_ ,” he breathes. “ _There’s_ a sight for sore eyes.”

Peggy has her back to Bucky, but he can tell from the tilt of her head that she’s doing that smile of hers, the one that promises mischief. “We waited up for you,” she tells Steve. “You’d better be worth it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Steve says, and then he’s kissing her, in a way that makes Bucky go from half-asleep to wildly aroused in three seconds flat.

Without breaking the kiss, Steve scoops her up, hitching her thighs around his waist. The wool of his uniform has to be itchy on her bare skin, but Peggy doesn’t seem to mind it; she plasters herself against him, biting at his neck as he carries her to bed, trailing the quilt behind them.

He lays her down on the bed, bending low with her legs still wrapped around him. When he turns his head to Bucky, his eyes are nearly black.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he rasps, and draws Bucky in with his free hand. He kisses him like a drowning man sucking in oxygen, like he’s dying of thirst and Bucky’s an oasis in the desert.

Bucky is swept up in him, a swimmer caught in a riptide, and surrenders completely. There’s nowhere he’d rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "You Can Touch" by Crowded House.  
> In case you were wondering, a racist asshole tried to get Gabe Jones reassigned because of his injury, but Steve and Phillips shouted him down. And it was only a flesh wound, anyhow.
> 
> As always, comments are much appreciated!


End file.
